Fright Night
by permanentlyfrazzled
Summary: Takes place after "The Great Game". Sherlock finds himself a bit shell-shocked after his first intimate meeting with Moriarty, and it's taking its toll on his mind. He puts forth an odd request to John to help ease his trauma.
1. Two Bedrooms Are No Longer Needed

_John appears calm, but his eyes read terror. Those same eyes that had seen the gates of hell in the sun and the heat of Afghanistan quivered just as fearfully now next to the glimmer of the swimming pool. A red dot hovers between his eyebrows. It is an almost permanent mark, transfixed on the only other mind Sherlock has an animal-like appetite for._

_Then another dot appears._

_And another._

_And another._

_And Sherlock's throat becomes dry._

_John's eyebrows tug together once and a silent plea escapes from him, his lips fluttering like butterfly wings. Sherlock's gaze regretfully turns away from his face, towards the Cheshire grin that's facing him from the other end of the pool, and lowers his gun. He aims at the carefully constructed bomb jacket, limp on the floor, and hesitates._

_He fires, and all sound disappears. All that's left is the rapid slush of pool water and that toothy grin from Jim, Dearest Jim, fading into the smoke._

He didn't know it quite yet, but Sherlock was yelling quite loudly now; loud enough to wake both John and Mrs. Hudson from their slumber. While she stood at the door to their flat John flew down the hall to Sherlock's room with wild abandon, not caring what he bumped into or knocked over. Without much regret he broke down the door upon finding it locked, and ran past its splintered remains to Sherlock's bed.

He was writhing, twisted deeply in his daisy-colored sheets. John found the color a bit surprising for someone as self-conscious of his surroundings as he was, but nevertheless he tore through them until he found a pair of bare shoulders and gripped them tight.

"Sherlock? _Sherlock!_" John took hold of him with brute, military force and shook him furiously into consciousness. They were both gasping and though they were both pale the color returned to their faces in a moment or two when their eyes met. John was relieved to find that– though he was a bit shaken – Sherlock was at least physically unharmed. But he could tell from looking at him that something was wrong.

At first there was nothing but silence between them, unspoken words transferred through desperate gazes. Then all John had to do was touch his face and Sherlock collapsed into him. No explanations were given or attempted, even as Sherlock started to shake violently. There was just simple understanding.

For a while John just held him tightly, hoping to calm the tremors. But after a while he didn't know what to do with himself. He wasn't sure if Mrs. Hudson was still at the door or not, waiting to hear news – either good or bad – and he certainly didn't want her to walk in on them like this. Sherlock was too fragile and John was too on edge to deal with her comments.

But when he heard movement, a slight shuffle of feet retreating down the stairs and the click of a shut door he relaxed and pulled Sherlock off of him slightly. But Sherlock remained resolute, gripped the fabric of his shirt as if he were about to crumble into a million pieces.

"John…" his voice was desperate. Pained. John choked.

"Yes?"

"We need to talk."

Not the first thing he expected to come out of his mouth. _Humor him, John, he's in shock._

"Talk? About what?"

"What do you think?" Sherlock's answer was quick, sharp. He was coming back, bit by bit. John knew Sherlock expected better from him.

He called forth a little more effort to think about his answer, but nothing came to him. He shook his head. "Nope. I've got nothing."

They were both silent again, and Sherlock loosened his grip. His lips moved once or twice but no sound came out of them. For the first time in a while he was fumbling with his words, choosing them carefully so as not to sound strange. But this moment was already at the pinnacle of strange, so he just let whatever came first flow out of him.

"Don't go. Not yet."

More color came to John's face. His cheeks felt hot, and his mind went to all sorts of places.

"I-I-I'm sorry?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sunk back to the headboard, leaving John by himself at the foot of the bed. "Security, John, that's all I'm asking. My subconscious is still obviously frazzled by the fact that you quite nearly died, so to soothe it I need to make it understand that you're perfectly alright. Having you in the bed with me while I sleep will ensure that result."

He paused, looked away, down to his exposed toes. He wriggled them once or twice, a look of contemplation on his face, then nodded with satisfaction. He seemed pleased with his answer, because he didn't meet John's gaze. He wasn't asking for approval.

"I hope I have made myself clear."

But John knew better. Though he wasn't seeking approval, Sherlock was asking for something else entirely, something that John never expected him to ask for: comfort. The twitch of a smile on John's lips indicated that he was more than happy to give that to him, a strange a request as it sounded. He was just glad that Sherlock still hadn't turned his head to look at him. He might have taken the smirk the wrong way.

"Crystal, Sherlock. Crystal clear." John leaned forward, crawled gingerly towards the front end of the bed and pushed himself under the sheets. He covered his face just at the right time as the now intrigued and almost fully-recovered detective spun his head round to look at his flatmate. Sherlock seemed slightly amiss when John accepted the request so quickly, and for the life of him he couldn't understand why. And that was going to bother him.

"So you're okay with it?"

The pillow beneath John's head crinkled, as did his forehead. "Yep."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

Sherlock wasn't satisfied with 'quite'. "I snore. Loudly."

"I've slept through worse. Afghanistan, remember?"

"It's quite unbearable, actually."

"Think I can handle it—"

"I mumble in my sleep. I say the most ridiculous things."

"Can't be worse than you screaming."

"I kick quite furiously, too. I'm all over the bed, in and out of the covers. You might get bruised up if you're not careful. Might break something."

Now Sherlock was being dramatic. He was making things up to get John's attention, and it worked. The sheets ruffled as John pulled them around his form; they were crisp and neat, smelled freshly of fabric softener; no cologne that he could smell, which wasn't strange to him. What he did find strange was that though he was doing what Sherlock had asked him to do he made no movement to lie down next to John. Maybe there was an ulterior motive, but if there was Sherlock was doing a very good job at hiding it.

"So do you want me to sleep with you, or not?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak then stopped, thinking the better of it. He had hesitated again; he never thought something so simple as a second of hesitation would feel so strange, but now he found himself doing it again, it did.

The word "desperately" hung loosely in between his teeth, but he swallowed it back down and chose something a little more appropriate.

"Yes… erm, please. If you…. really, truly don't mind, John."

Another twitch grew into a full blown smile, but John wasn't afraid to show it this time. Sherlock being timid and choosing his words carefully was really a sight to see. He wished he had a camera.

"No, really, I don't mind. It's…" he laughed, "…just don't kick me, please, and we're golden."

"Hm." Sherlock laughed too, his blue eyes shining in the dim light of his room, and laid down next to John like a child, curled into the sheets with his knees tucked in close to his stomach. He couldn't help but smile as sleep finally caught up with him.

"Yes, quite… I'll try my best."


	2. Sherlock Has an Epiphany

To Sherlock, the experiment was going quite well.

Though it was both a weird and wonderful sensation to have John lying next to him every night – to hear him breathing in the dark, so slowly and so quietly and oh so perfectly – it made Sherlock feel confident knowing that this was going to be the perfect solution to his ailment, something only the doctor could fix. He would get over his Moriarty-induced P.T.S.D. in a few days or so and that would be the end of it.

He slept soundly through the nights that followed, though he made sure to avoid any contact with the body next to him, consciously shying away from unconscious brushes of skin against skin, and thanks to that their relationship remained platonic and unaltered. It wasn't warped or twisted in any fashion now that this new routine had been adopted, and once Sherlock got on with a new case a week later the rhythm he was so accustomed to living by picked right back up where it left off, beat for beat.

But good things never last for very long.

To his great frustration the dreams started to come back. The screaming didn't return for at least a week after, but these visions were more vivid and frightful than before. It was as if Moriarty was playing with him, like a beast playing with his food.

_Jim is everywhere, violating the sanctity of his mind. He's even in places that he was never meant to be in, and Sherlock is deathly afraid of this. He's at 221B, his head stuck gingerly on the middle shelf of the fridge with that same plastered grin on his face. He's with Sherlock on his couch, straddling him with his neck arched forward, watching him drown in the freeing amalgam of pleasures that just three nicotine patches can administer so exquisitely. Jim's face is inches away from Sherlock's, their breath mingled and he doesn't even realize it._

_Then he's at the crime scene, __**their first**__**crime scene**__, quietly propped up against the crumbling wall adjacent. He's treading on almost sacred ground and he's just loving every second of it._

_At first he simply stands there, stoic and cold with his arms crossed and barely a wrinkle in the fabric of his Westwood suit. Sherlock and John survey the pink lady's corpse, exchange a word, a glance, an idea, and neither one of them realizes that a spectacular friendship is budding up from such a morbid scene as this. And all the while, unbeknownst to them, the Devil himself is watching them play detective._

_Then Jim's visage flickers as his lips stretch over bleached teeth. His whole body – like a glitch, distorted with static and almost hissing with deformity – disappears and is behind John in an instant, his lips pressed gingerly against his ear._

_His gaze, though, is fixed on Sherlock, and it is chilling to the bone._

"_I'll burn you, my dear," he says to Sherlock sweetly, "from the inside out."_

_And in the most delicate fashion possible John is lying dead, flat on the floor in the woman's place, a thick circle of blood working its way out and around him from the gaping hole where his heart should be._

This proves to be too much for him. Sherlock wakes up in a fit, chokes on a whimper and scrambles to get his chest elevated. He is parched for air, and it takes him a moment to catch himself and to realize that John is already up, propped up against the headboard with a look of concern in his eyes. His heart sank.

"How long have you been up?"

John purses his lips and thinks for a moment before he decides that there's really no reason to lie. "A while."

"Why?"

"You've been moaning for the past forty-five minutes. I thought you were kidding about all that, you know…"

"I _was_."

"Well apparently not…"

John doesn't realize how painfully distressing that little bit of information is to Sherlock until all of the color drains from his cheeks, and then he understands: just when he thought he had overcome the hill, he realizes he's really just on a plateau.

Running his fingers through his hair as if to calm himself Sherlock lies back down on the bed and stares at the ceiling, his eyes moving rapidly in thought.

"What am I not doing?" the words come out slowly, as if he's fitting the syllables together bit by bit. John just looks at him in wonder.

"Sorry?"

"I _know_ you're alright, John. You and I walked away from that swimming pool slightly singed at best, free and clear of any injuries. I have reassured my mind by having you in close proximity, I've continued my daily habits, invested myself entirely in another case and yet I am still under duress. Why?"

He turns to John and looks at him, half expecting him to have the answer.

Strange, that. Turning to someone else for the answer to a problem. He knows this, knows that this is highly irregular, not proper at all for Sherlock Holmes, but he does it anyway. He's breaking in half from the inside out and he has nowhere else to turn to but to _John._

"Why, John? Why?"

John knows the answer. Or, at least, he thinks he does. He's pondered about it for the past two weeks but he doesn't feel like it's the right time to say it just yet.

Or is it?

In that silence that he had grown to cherish – for the simple fact that so much passed between them in such utter quiet – John realized that Sherlock needed to hear this. Some people needed to be slapped in the face to realize something and Sherlock was one of those people.

"You want to know what I think?"

"Yes."

"You really do?"

"_Desperately." _ Sherlock isn't afraid to use that word this time, despite the look of shock in John's eyes. That's what he is: desperate. He's tired and paper-thin and he just wants to know what's wrong with him. And John gladly gives in.

"…Alright."

He takes a moment to think of the proper words, making sure not to take too much time so that Sherlock doesn't throw a fit, then after a moment of contemplation he shimmies down to Sherlock's level and looks him right in the eye with a firm gaze. Here we go.

"There's more to it than you realize… I think," he began, hesitating ever so slightly. It felt strange telling Sherlock, of all people, that he just wasn't getting it. This was going to take some getting used to. "It's not just worry that's getting at you. There's a duality there, between Moriarty and I—"

Sherlock takes this as a comparison and laughs unconsciously, which angers John in an instant.

"Come on now, let me finish!"

And Sherlock does with a quick clearing of his throat. "Sorry. Do continue."

"What I meant to say is that you've got two opposing forces here: you've got… security in me, in our relationship – something you rarely had with anyone else – and with Moriarty's arrival that security is threatened. Do you see what I mean?"

Sherlock is silent. John isn't sure whether that's a signal of affirmation or repudiation, so he continues anyway.

"Look, the fact is you're _powerless_, and that scares the hell out of you. _It has to._ I mean, you have such cunning and such wit that power just comes naturally to you. You… command anything and everything with that fantastic brain of yours and with Moriarty in the picture now you feel helpless. And that helplessness has a direct connection with me…"

Now comes the intimate nature of his thoughts, and John looks away as he thinks of a proper way to put this, so it doesn't hurt Sherlock's feelings, or heighten them.

"You have to admit that we have a very… unique relationship."

Sherlock nods once. "Yes, I should say so."

"And Moriarty has taken great notice of that."

"Well of course he has. He used you as a human bomb, didn't he?"

"That's not really my point—"

"Well what is it, then?"

"_He thinks you have feelings for me, you idiot!_ He sees me as your only weakness, and you're scared to death because subconsciously you know it's _true_ and you won't **admit it**!"

And that's it. John has spit it out, and it's out in the open, on the table, the cards dealt neatly and orderly, and John is just waiting for Sherlock to explode.

But he doesn't. Instead he looks back up at the ceiling in utter silence before muttering a soft "_Oh…"_

And Sherlock realizes two things.

One: that Moriarty has sweetly dug his claws into Sherlock, and he wasn't planning on letting go.

And two: _John is absolutely, positively and perfectly __**right**__._


	3. The L Word

"So. What now?"

Sherlock looked up expectantly from his spot on the sofa at John, who – from Sherlock's point of view – appeared to be standing on the ceiling. He wasn't, of course; Sherlock was upside down, his head dangling precariously over the edge of the sofa while the rest of him rested awkwardly all the way up against the wall, feet crossed and hands folded neatly on his chest. He had been lying in this position for hours now and it was a wonder that all the blood hadn't rushed to his head.

John remained silent, standing stoic beside the fireplace for a moment or two, before he swiveled round and leaned up against the mantelpiece, staring blankly at himself in the mirror.

Since his little outburst almost two nights ago, the two of them had barely spoken at all. Even when it came to his new case, Sherlock avoided him, completely shying away from asking for a second opinion, or any sort of help. Needless to say John wasn't in the best of moods.

He still felt entirely uneasy about the whole ordeal, how Sherlock's only response to his rather forward declaration of intimacy was just a whisper of alarm. And the fact that _everything_ now felt extraordinarily awkward when they were together scared him, because if Sherlock didn't have feelings for him things would have gone on as they always did.

But they _didn't._ Things had changed between them.

And he didn't it.

"John?"

Everything seemed muted for a moment, like sound was disappearing again. John felt slightly light-headed, like his throat was closing up. Here it comes.

"Yes?"

"We can't avoid this forever."

He laughed quietly at Sherlock's reflection. "Wasn't expecting that."

"Hm?"

"I thought you were _trying_ to avoid this."

"I thought _you_ were."

"I _am_."

"But _I'm_ not."

"Yes, we've established that!" John surprised himself at how quickly he raised his voice, how his throat almost stung at the intensity that came from him. Neither of them expected him to get so defensive, and from the look on Sherlock's face he was clearly hurt.

"Sorry." John lowered his gaze away from the mirror. He couldn't look at himself or at Sherlock now.

"Quite alright." It was a weak lie. Quite frankly John expected better. But then again Sherlock wasn't himself, so it wasn't quite as much of a surprise as he might've thought. "So, erm…"

"Yes, Sherlock…"

"I suggest we meet this head on. This… issue of _intimacy_ between us." Sherlock's nose crinkled when he mentioned the word, and for a moment there John had high hopes that this would be over quickly. But how wrong he was.

"Okay. Great."

"So what do you think we should do about it?"

"What do I think? ….You're asking _me_?"

"I've been doing an awful lot of that lately, haven't I?"

"Yes, you have. And I don't like it."

Confusion was an expression that just didn't look right on Sherlock's face, but there it was, all the same. He looked at John with narrowed eyes, and shook his head slightly. "What do you mean?"

John was sick of beating around the bush, and now that he was given an open invitation he was going to take it. This needed to be sorted out, now. He didn't like seeing Sherlock like this. So weak, so _vulnerable._ It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"You're the one who's supposed to have all of the answers, not me." John put both hands on the mantelpiece and gripped it tight, laying all of his weight against it. He gaze remained downcast; he couldn't make eye contact at all.

"For close to three weeks now I've watched you crumble and you have no idea how it feels. My head is spinning and… my heart _hurts_ and nothing makes sense anymore. Everything is completely and utterly upside down and I can't make heads or tails of anything because you're supposed to be immovable. Bloody hell Sherlock, where have you gone? You're not yourself anymore!"

"Do you think I _like_ feeling like this, John?" Sherlock had been sitting quietly while John's voice gradually got louder and louder, but he couldn't take it anymore. He shot up to his feet, pounded his way up and over the coffee table and onto the carpet and stood right behind John, towering over him. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips were dry and he looked _so_ unlike himself.

Sherlock took hold of John's shoulder – his good shoulder – and gripped it tightly. "Do you think I like having to go to someone else for help?"

"Of course not."

"I'm not programmed to be this way, John, but I can't help myself any longer. My brain is so incredibly clouded that I can barely even think straight. You are the answer to my problem. I crave your word on this, I'm gasping for it. So _please. What do you want me to do?"_

And in that moment, John panicked. Not because of Sherlock's ever-growing vulnerability, his fragility, but because what came out of his mouth next would not only change everything forever, but he knew in his heart that he had feelings too, and they weren't going to be ignored.

"Tell me that you love me."

John finally lifted his gaze, and when their eyes met all was silent. They stared at each other for the longest time, unyielding and unbreakable, until John made the first move.

"You're agonizing over it," he said, "I know you are. That's why all of this is happening. You love me, and… I think you've loved me for a while, but you're too damn stubborn and _stupid_ to admit it to yourself, even to me. You can't sleep at night because Moriarty knows this, and you're afraid he's going to take me away from you. He has the power to do it and you feel helpless against him."

"…." Sherlock said nothing and simply continued staring. John didn't need more proof than that.

"I'm right, aren't I? For the first time since I've started living with you, I'm _bloody right,_ aren't I?"

"…yes."

"What?" John turned around to face him, shook Sherlock's hand off of his shoulder. He heard him alright. He just wanted to hear him say it, nice and clear. "Didn't quite catch that…"

"Yes, John, you were right."

"Then say it. Do us both a favor and just say it."

And Sherlock did just that. His eyes softened, his breath slowed, and gradually – with great care and precision – he said: "I love you, John Watson. And…"

"What's this? 'And'? There's an 'and'?"

"Will you let me finish?"

"Sorry, sorry…"

Another sigh, and… "Moriarty cannot have you. Because you, John Watson, are_ mine_."


	4. Love and the Solar System

Sherlock really was stupid. He had to be. Absolutely, positively, had to be.  
>Because he was just inches from John's face and nothing was happening.<br>Intimacy had always been an issue for him. Ever since he was a child, something just didn't click in that brilliant brain of his. He didn't want to hold hands with girls when he was little, he didn't daydream about cheerleaders or want to shag the girl at the coffee shop because she had killer legs. Sherlock just didn't think those kinds of thoughts – no matter the person, or even the gender of the person – he just didn't.  
>He never even quite liked his mother, either. Of course he loved her – what child doesn't innately love its own mother? – but he only loved her to a certain point. And that does sound cold, surely, but that was how Sherlock was. Caring wasn't part of his anatomical structure.<br>But John… now John said so himself. Even Sherlock said it himself; the words came out of his mouth, one after the other, all the syllables intact: he loved John Watson. There was no denying it.  
>So why was it that he couldn't do something so simple as kiss the person he loved? It didn't have to be on the lips; a simple peck on the cheek was enough to start, or a kiss on his forehead.<br>A kiss on the forehead was intimate. It was endearing, showing a sort of tenderness that, at some times, could mean more than a regular kiss… right?  
>Well, maybe it was the fact that John was fast asleep and snoring softly with his mouth half open that made Sherlock a bit hesitant.<br>But no, even that shouldn't have fazed him. If the world's idea of love was really the correct definition for it, little things like a bit of drool wouldn't even matter. They'd be small hurdles in comparison to the desire he'd feel to show affection for John.  
>So, swallowing slightly, Sherlock pushed himself. He took in a small breath and eased his face in, closer, closer…<br>Then John woke up with a snort and their faces instantly smacked together, bone against bone.  
>"Bloody HELL, Sherlock!" John reeled back, turning over and into his pillow, only to find that the whiteness of it was now sullied by the bloodiest of reds. He cursed and turned to look at Sherlock, who was bleeding too and hissing with the pain.<br>"If only you hadn't moved," Sherlock spat and twisted away from the bed and up and across the room. The first aid kit was under the Petri dish with the Stachybotrys Atra growing on it, if he remembered correctly.  
>"I felt you breathing on me! If that's not reason enough to wake up in a fright, I don't know what is!"<br>"Oh for God's sake, stop it John!" Sherlock already had the first aid kit in hand, and in seconds was sitting back in front of him, with gauze and disinfectant at the ready. "And hold still…"  
>"Shouldn't you let me do that? I'm a doctor, in case you've forgotten…"<br>"Shut up…" John noticed that there was a slight hint of color in Sherlock's cheeks, which was saying something. The paleness of his skin was one of his flaws, in that it was much harder to hide a blush, no matter how slight. Sherlock had learned to control his skin from acting out over the years, but around John it was getting harder and harder by the minute to do so.  
>John barely even flinched when the disinfectant was applied to his skin. The sting was nothing compared to the pain he'd felt over the years. He was more interested in Sherlock's intentions.<br>"So what were you doing, then?"  
>"What?" Sherlock looked like he was concentrating, but on what John wasn't sure. It certainly wasn't the injury to his forehead, because quite frankly he was doing a shotty job at it. He could feel disinfectant trailing down the bridge of his nose.<br>"You had to've been staring at me, or doing something… sinister."  
>"Sinister? Why do you say that?"<br>"When you sleep, you sleep like the dead, because you barely sleep as it is. So your body shuts down completely instead of going into hibernate. You weren't sleeping, but I was." John made an excellent point, and he felt quite proud of himself for his analogy. Sherlock liked to refer to his brain as his hard drive, so why not compare his whole body to the rest of the computer. He grinned.  
>"Like I said: sinister."<br>"I did nothing of the sort." With one more dab, Sherlock tossed the gauze into the dark corners of the room and applied a bandage securely in the middle of John's forehead. He hesitated for a moment, just staring at the thing like it was a huge bulls-eye, then swiftly – but gently – he pressed his lips to it, not even firmly enough to make a sound, then pulled away. "I was merely… experimenting. That is all."  
>That was enough to get John thinking. "You were trying to kiss me, weren't you?"<br>Sherlock was midway through applying a bandage to his own head, not even bothering to get rid of the blood (or perhaps he just forgot about it in his frenzy. He already felt frazzled about finally kissing John, but to have him declare it made things worse) when John reached forward and stopped him.  
>"Stop that. Let me do it."<br>"No, John, I'm fine. I don't want to smell like disinfectant—"  
>"No, Sherlock, I meant this…"<br>John pulled Sherlock's hand down, so now their locked fingers were resting gingerly on the bed. Neither one of them moved or conveyed anything for a moment or two before John leaned forward and kissed him.  
>His mind was already racing with deductions:<br>The kiss was quick, but still long enough to linger on Sherlock's lips after they pulled away from each other. The time span was important: a quicker kiss would have suggested an unwillingness to be intimate from John, but that wasn't apparent. Any longer and it would have been forced. John was being polite: he was making his feelings known but not wanting to make Sherlock uncomfortable in any shape or form by prolonging it.  
>Then there was the taste. He tasted faintly of peppermint and coffee, with traces of milk, but no sugar. So that's why he was always so upset whenever they ran out of milk. How insensitive of him; Sherlock liked his coffee black.<br>And the kiss was simple; nothing special by John's standards. Again, was there a lack of intimacy there? Hardly. Not only was he being polite to Sherlock, and not shocking him with an extraordinarily passionate kiss; he had kissed loads of people like this before. It came naturally to him.  
>But to Sherlock… even with a simple kiss, nothing extravagant or clever, he was on fire. Every cell in his body was raging at this new sensation, and his eyes would have rolled back in his head if he would have let them. He was always one for drama.<br>"Sherlock?"  
>"Hm?"<br>"Are you okay?"  
>Apparently Sherlock had been sitting there for a while, quiet as a church mouse, with a silly smile on his face. John was, admittedly, a little creeped out, but nevertheless amused by the expression.<br>"Y-Yes. Yes, John, I'm fine. Thank you."  
>"For what? The sentiment or for the peck?"<br>"Both, actually…" The blush grew darker, and John laughed louder this time. The room almost rung with it.  
>"Can I clean your cut now, Mister Detective, or are you going to let that blood dry and stay there for the rest of the day?"<br>He nodded compliantly, and bent his head forward like a child while John did his thing. Again the two of them were silent, even after Sherlock's wound was mended and the two of them slipped back under the sheets to continue the night with sleep.  
>But before he dozed off John added a little something that he thought was quite clever.<br>"So, that's two things, then…"  
>Sherlock looked confused and turned over under the sheets. "Sorry, what?"<br>"Remember our little chat about the solar system?"  
>Sherlock groaned. "Oh no, not this again—"<br>"Well now there's two things you need to upload onto your 'hard drive', isn't that right?"  
>"I don't understand…" That same look of confusion remained on his face for a moment longer before John finally explained himself.<br>"Love, Sherlock," he said, "Love and the solar system. Two things you need to get into your head, and you'll be all set, won't you?"  
>He couldn't help but laugh as well. Oh clever, John. How very clever. "Yes… I suppose you're right about that, too."<br>"I've been doing an awful lot of that lately, haven't I?" 


	5. Wildfire

Sherlock hadn't had a nightmare in almost a fortnight. He and John still slept together to keep the record going but it was with minimal touching, at best. He was still nervous about getting sexual with John, and decided it d be best to wait as long as possible before they tried anything as... _delicate_ as intercourse.

He seemed to fade back into his old cranky and brilliant self despite the frustration, however there was one small change that he took notice of rather quickly: Sherlock found himself locking the door to his room at night, checking all the windows when they came home and John wasn t looking. He even keeping a loaded handgun in the drawer of his bedside table, in case something were to happen to them when they were asleep, at their most vulnerable.

These were signs of attachment, protectiveness. He never exercised caution unless it was necessary, and his old self would have frowned upon him for worrying like this. But this was John he was thinking about. John was different.

John was everything to him now, even if he didn t fully realize it yet. He found himself sneaking kisses here and there, leaving him little love notes in the fridge next to his bag of decomposing thumbs, actually buying milk and other such groceries when he was out. They texted nonstop when they were apart, even if Sherlock just reported every little thing he was doing half of the time instead of actually carrying on a conversation.

But still, despite all of this, despite the airy feeling Sherlock got when he was with John, something didn t feel right in 221B. There was a sort of tension that seeped into the walls, leaked in through the flue of the fireplace and into their cozy little bedroom, and he could feel it.

Then, one night, he found himself at the pool again.

Only this time, there was no bomb jacket, no swarm of red dots buzzing noisily around his head. Even John wasn t there.

It was just Jim, Dearest Jim, alone with Sherlock in an empty room. And he looked as frightful as ever.

"Evening." Moriarty rocked back and forth on his heels, his hands hidden in his pockets. Sherlock always wondered what kinds of things a consulting criminal would carry in there, but now was not the time for that.

"...evening."

"Do you know what day it is, Sherlock?" Moriarty spun around playfully, the wavering light from the pool s surface reflecting off of his glittering teeth. He looked like a shark dancing out of the water.

But no shark was going to intimidate him, or outwit him. A coy little smile tugged at his lips and he fingered his collar, clearing his throat loudly enough so that it echoed throughout the building.

"January 3rd: the tenth day of Christmas. Also the Christian feast day for St. Genevieve, the day that King Tutankhamen s mummy was discovered, the date of Alaska s acceptance into the United States, the tragic end of the doomed Mars Polar Lander - shall I continue?"

Moriarty wasn t impressed, and rolled his eyes to show it. "I'm not here to watch you dance, dear boy."

"Then please, enlighten me: what are you here for?"

Moriarty stopped mid-step, right underneath a sign that read in nice, bold blood-red letters: NO DIVING. He looked down at his expensive shoes then back up to Sherlock.

"It's Christmas, don t you see? And I ve just found an extra present lying underneath the tree, hidden by all the stupid, fat, gaudy branches and it s all wrapped up nice and pretty, just for me." He let out a little girlish giggle. "Care to take a guess at what it is?"

"Oh well I-"

"Too bad. I m just going to go ahead and tell you. Get rid of the suspense~"

Moriarty's left hand twitched in his pocket, and Sherlock almost jumped out of his skin. But it wasn't a gun that he pulled out of the fabric, or a knife or any other sort of weapon. It was small; small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, and when he uncurled his fingers and held out his palm for Sherlock to see, he felt a little dip in his chest.

It was a heart. Not a real, live, beating one - it was made out of paper, neatly folded and pressed like an origami crane.

"It's your heart you see," he said with a devilish smile. "I told you, dearest, that I would burn you, but at first I didn t know how. You're funny like that, you know. Your innermost desires, the secret little bits of you are oh so hard to get at, but now Ohoho, now~" Moriarty was almost dancing with delight. "I've finally found what makes your pulse race."

Smiling, Moriarty began to unfold the heart, delicately pulling one flap after another until the paper was nice and flat. And on it was a picture of John, sleeping soundly in their bedroom.

Sherlock's pulse didn't race. It flew like _lightning_.

"Your little boy toy is going to have a lot more than just a nasty little shoulder wound when I'm done with him, Sherlock. He s going to wish that bullet had hit his heart instead..."

And lifting his free hand, Moriarty snapped, and the dream ended. Sherlock shot up, drenched in sweat, and frantically reached beside him for a pair of warm hands to comfort him.

But the sheets were cold. They'd _been_ cold for at least several hours, four at best. John wasn't there. He was gone.  
>He felt all of the blood rush out of him at once.<p>

"My God... what have I done?"

* * *

><p>There was an odd sensation at the roof of John's mouth, like an itch that needed to be scratched, and it woke him up from his slumber.<p>

What he found next, though, was_ quite_ interesting.

A grenade had been shoved into his mouth. The pin was attached to a string that weaved in and out of the darkness that surrounded him. He wasn't sure if the strings that crisscrossed in front of him were all connected to each other, or if they were a mass bundle of different strings, all twitching with expectancy. The thought of disturbing one string made his jaw go slack.

'_Just spit it out_', he thought to himself. '_If you do it hard enough, it ll be a ways away from you. No need to worry._' But just as he flexed the muscles of his throat, there was a soft click from behind his head.

"Oh I wouldn't do that if I were you, Johnny-boy..." That voice... If John could've turned to look, he would have seen a familiar grin from behind the barrel of the gun pointed at the back of his head.

"Just be patient, love. He ll be here in a minute..."

* * *

><p><em>Found. Lost puppy: very cute and very obedient. Please collect. The pool. <strong>Now<strong> _

_-JM_

Sherlock stared down at his phone, at the text message that seemed to scream at him from it, and he felt almost too scared to move. He was going back into the war zone, into the fiery pit of his nightmares, but this time he had a target on his heart.  
>And its name was John Watson.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Thank you guys so very much for your kind reviews and thoughtful words. It really warms my heart to read that I'm doing right by Sherly and Jawn. 33 I'll try and post at least a chapter a day (so long as work doesn't get in the way) so please, keep reading and let me know if I perhaps messed up somewhere or if there's an area I should improve on! Also, sorry about the quality of the chapters lately. The site is being stupid and the formatting isn't working like I wanted to. Figures...<em>

_Anyways, thanks again lovelies! Keep calm, carry on, and blame Anderson. With love -PF~_


	6. Danger Zone

Sherlock had always believed that the effects of a traumatizing event on a person's mind was not the fault of the event, but of the person. Some chemical defect in the brain made them give in to their fear and let it rule them, kept them on a leash and watched them crawl on all fours.

But, then again, Sherlock had never been really, _truly_ scared. That is, until now.

In his panic, he didn't even get dressed. He just grabbed his gun and left the flat in his dressing gown, with no shoes to speak of whatsoever.

The thing about running somewhere with no shoes on is that you don't realize the pain you're in until you actually stop running. But even so, he _ran there._ _All the way there_. He wasn't going to sit in a cab and twiddle his thumbs, his heart aching every time they reached a traffic light, and wonder what was happening while he did nothing. His feet bled and his chest was void of air but he ignored it and just _ran_.

He ignored the pain when he arrived at the sport center, ignored the droplets of blood he left behind and walked straight and true to where all of this began for him and John. To the place where he realized he was human and broken and seven different kinds of love struck.

But when he got to the door, the only door separating him from John and the imminent danger that they were about to be thrust into, he hesitated.

He was terrified.

Now he understood what John must have felt like every day: hearing the deep beats of gunfire everywhere, on television, in the cars that sped by the flat and in the footsteps of the living outside; feeling the hot sting of a bullet through his flesh when he looked at his scar.

But he would have worse than that if Sherlock didn't do something, and quickly. This was no time to let his emotions rule him. His heart, after all, was sitting in the other room, bound and gagged and who knew what else. Sherlock only had his head to guide him now, so he let it guide as he pushed past the door.

Moriarty was on the edge of his patience when Sherlock walked in, but his agitation quickly switched to giddy excitement in a flash of white teeth.

"Ah! There you are, darling. I was afraid we wouldn't be expecting you this evening!"

Sherlock snorted. He didn't even look at Moriarty, and instead looked straight to John, his eyes darting rapidly as he assessed the damages. He appeared unharmed for the most part, save for the grenade clenched in his teeth, but he would soon fix that.

"Frankly, I'm insulted," he said. "You knew I was coming, so don't pretend to think otherwise."

"Oooooh, _touchy!_" Moriarty leaned down and pressed his lips to John's left ear, tugging at his heart strings further. John whimpered. "Have I hit a _nerve_?"

"Oh, most certainly." With that, Sherlock raised his hand gun and cocked it, aiming the barrel directly at Jim's forehead. He found his strength returning to him as rage quelled and subsequently replaced his fear. Anger was much healthier than fear, and much more useful.

"You've had your fun, now let him go."

"Let him go? Now?" Moriarty pulled away and lifted his gun again, cocking it with tenderness and care. He didn't aim it at John's head this time, though. This time, he aimed for his shoulder, his _left_ shoulder.

Then, placing the barrel squarely against his skin, _he fired._

John's cries were muffled by the hardness of the grenade, but nevertheless they echoed around the room and made Sherlock's eyes burn with tears. While his gun was still held firmly, his hands were shaking. This couldn't be happening, it just couldn't.

"The game has barely begun, Sherlock Holmes!" Moriarty circled around John's limp form, not even flinching as quiet sobs slipped through his teeth, and placed the barrel of the gun onto John's kneecap next. "If you want your little Johnny-boy alive – and at least slightly intact – then you have to solve a little puzzle for me!"

Moriarty pointed to the strings that crisscrossed in the air between them, swaying gently with each breath they released.

"You have ten seconds to decide which string connects to the grenade. If you can't figure it out in the time allotted, then… _boom_." He made a motion with his free hand that indicated an explosion of great magnitude, and chuckled quietly. "Is that clear enough for you, dear?"

Sherlock was quivering uncontrollably now, watching John with uncanny intensity as his eyes rolled back and his nostrils flared, pain taking up the entirety of him. But his voice was surprisingly calm and flat.

"Yes, Jim. Crystal."

"Alright then. _Ten."_

Sherlock's mind was already racing. His eyes started at the grenade, to the string attached to the pin, and he tried to follow it, trace the line through the frenzy and the chaos of the bundle before him, but his gaze remained fixed on John. He couldn't focus.

"_Nine."_

He stared at the contours of John's face, tracing them up until he met his eyes, and was unable to tear himself away. He was wasting precious time, time neither of them could afford to lose, but he couldn't help himself. He was stuck.

"_Eight."_

'_John, stop looking at me like that.'_

"_Seven."_

'_I'm so sorry, John. This is all my fault…'_

"_Six."_

'_I should have been awake. I should have watched…'_

"_Five."_

'_Please…'_

"_Four."_

'_Please forgive me…'_

"_Three… Two… One…"_

And that's when Sherlock saw it. In the reflection of John's gaze, he saw the answer to the problem. And not in the figurative sense, of course. He really did_ see it, _and all he had to do was move his gun an inch to the left, a little more, a bit further…

And he fired.

In the darkness, there was a fluid thump, a weight of about 210 pounds hitting the floor, then a quiet slush as the body sunk into the pool water and turned it red with blood.

The string that held the pin of the grenade went limp, while the other dozens of strings remained intact.

Moriarty's mouth closed, and with a disappointed frown he lowered his gun and reached out to take the grenade from John's mouth. He let out a huge gasp of relief and spit once or twice onto the ground. It would be a while before he'd get the taste of metal out of his mouth.

"How did you know?" Moriarty stepped back as Sherlock ran forward, pushing through the strings, tearing at them, clawing like a wild animal and tossing them into the pool, just so he could get to John. "I made the darkness stretch so perfectly. There was no way you could have seen him… So how did you?"

By this time Sherlock had already untied John and was cradling him in his arms. He pressed his fingers deep into the wound, despite John's sharp outcry, to get it to stop bleeding, and shushed him gently before addressing the question.

"John's my answer to everything…"

"Pardon?"

"His eyes…" Sherlock's voice was soft, almost uncatchable. Moriarty had to strain to hear him. "You made sure to keep the rest of the place dark, Moriarty, but you were a little too keen on your choice of lighting. All I had to do was look at the reflection in John's eyes and I saw the man standing there in the dark behind you… _He_ was holding the correct string. The rest were just a ruse, a red herring, to make me waste my time and therefore John's precious life…"

Moriarty was silent, and Sherlock was growing impatient. He needed to get John to the hospital, and quickly.

"Leave us."

Still, nothing.

"You got what you came for, now leave us." And that was the trigger.

"I got what I came for? Really now?" The gun twitched in Moriarty's hand as his voice grew progressively louder, and soon he raised it again. Walking forward, he pressed the barrel firmly to Sherlock's forehead.

"I've only gotten a teensy piece of my prize…" he hissed. "I did what I was supposed to do: I grabbed your little boyfriend and I made him hurt. I made him bleed, I made him SCREAM for you and what do I have to show for it? I told you I'd burn you, and all I've seen the flames do is lick your sides like kittens lapping at milk. _I want to watch you turn into a pile of smoldering ASH, Sherlock! _You WILL fall before me and beg for your lives! DO YOU HEAR ME? **YOU. WILL. **_**BEG**_**!**"

Sherlock was quiet. The only sound in the room was the slush of the pool and John's ragged breathing.

"You want me to beg?"

"I want you to _squeal."_

"…Please…" Finally Sherlock looked up at him, and Moriarty's jaw went slack. He saw in his eyes and heard in his voice that this time he was being genuine. The hot tears forming in the corners of his eyes were not ones of the crocodile variety; they were real. "Please, Jim, let us go. I'll get on my knees if I have to, just… _please…_"

And with that, Moriarty lowered his gun.

He felt sick, inches close to vomiting. This was not the Sherlock he knew. This breed was much weaker than the first generation. Spineless, fluffy and full of _feeling._

"You're no fun anymore, Sherlock… Not worth my time."

And like a child Moriarty stomped off, throwing the gun into the pool and disappearing from view.


End file.
